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A  QUIET  ROAD 


A  QUIET  ROAD  BY 
LIZETTE  WOODWORTH 
REESE 


PORTLAND  MAINE 

THOMAS  B  MOSHER 

MDCCCCXVI 


COPYRIGHT 

LIZETTE  WOODWORTH    REESE 
1896 


&h 

Q/- 

/?/* 


TO 
SOPHIA    LOUISA 


THE  ROAD  OF  REMEMBRANCE 


old  wind  stirs  the  hawthorn  tree 
The  tree  is  blossoming; 
Northward  the  road  runs  from  the  sea, 
And  past  the  House  of  Spring. 

The  folk  go  down  it  unafraid; 

The  still  roofs  rise  before; 
When  you  were  lad  and  I  was  maid, 

Wide  open  stood  that  door. 

Now,  other  children  crowd  the  stair, 
And  hunt  from  room  to  room  ; 

Outside,  under  the  hawthorn  fair  , 
We  pluck  the  thorny  bloom. 

Out  in  the  quiet  road  we  stand, 
Shut  in  from  wharf  and  mart, 

The  old  wind  blowing  up  the  land, 
The  old  thoughts  at  our  heart. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

AN    ENGLISH    MISSAL 3 

A   PASTORAL 5 

CHARLES    LAMB 6 

TELLING   THE    BEES 7 

HER    LAST   WORD                .....  8 

IN   TIME   OF   GRIEF          .....  9 

LOVE    CAME    BACK    AT    FALL    O'    DEW          .             .  IO 

INDIAN   SUMMER   .            .            .            .            .            .  II 

A    STREET    SCENE  .             .             .             .             .             .  12 

WAITING   FOR   SONG 13 

ROBERT    LOUIS    STEVENSON      .             .             .             .  14 

AUTUMN   TO   SPRING 1$ 

A   WHITE   LILAC     .            .            .            .            .            .  Ij 

TO   A   TOWN    POET l8 

A   CRICKET   IN   AUTUMN            .            .            .            .  2O 

WRIT   IN   A    BOOK    OF    ELIZABETHAN    VERSE       .  21 

AN    OLD    BELLE 22 

THE   SHEPHERD      .            ...            .            .  23 

A    FORGOTTEN    ANCESTOR          .             .             .             .  24 

THE    DAY    BEFORE    SPRING       *    :     •*,.*           .            .  25 

IN    HARBOR.            .            .310*    ':  «.:/*l     f1  i         >  .  26 

HERRICK         .            .            »                        .            ..           .  27 

TRUST  .  28 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

INSPIRATION              .             .             .'          .     :      ;.             .  29 

THE   THRUSH    IN    THE    ORCHARD      .             .             .  31 

GROWTH 33 

A  BELATED  ROSE 34 

RECOMPENSE        .  .  -35 

A  CELTIC  MAYING  SONG        .        .        .        .  36 

A  HOLIDAY 37 

FIRST  LOVE  .......  38 

CONSOLATION 39 

ON  A  COLONIAL  PICTURE      .  .40 

A  LYRIC  ON  THE  LYRIC        ....  42 

DEATH'S  GUERDON        .....  44 

A    MEMORY 45 

MYSTERY 46 

KEATS 47 

THE    LAVENDER    WOMAN             ....  48 

RESERVE          .             .             .             .             .             .             .  5° 

OLD    AGE 51 

A    SONG 52 

ALL-SAINTS'  EVE 53 

THE  CROCUS 54 

BLOOM    IN    AUTUMN          .             .             .         .'-U-TS  H    flJ  55 

THE    LOOK    OF    THE    HEDGE     .             .             .             .  57 

AT    LAST          .             .             .             .             .            .            V  58 

FRA  GREGORY'S  WORD  TO  THE  LORD    .         .   ,  59 

A  SONG  OF  THE  LAST  ROSE          ..       ..  ?     .  6 1 

LAUGHTER    .         ..        ..        .         ...         .  62 

A  MARSH  SONG     .         .         .63 


A  QUIET  ROAD 


AN  ENGLISH  MISSAL 

UPON  these  pages  clear, 
I,  Basil,  write  my  name ; 
My  task  is  ended,  and  the  year 
Is  gone  out  like  a  flame. 

Martin  and  John  the  good 
Are  gathered  to  the  blest ; 
It  seems  an  hour  ago  they  stood 
And  praised  me  with  the  rest. 

I  missed  them  when  they  went ; 
Then  filled  this  page  with  palms, 
And  saw  them  both — their  travail  spent 
Harbored  in  heavenly  calms. 

The  tulips  in  this  book, 

Their  like  our  garden  knew ; 

All  spring  what  could  I  do  but  look, 

And  set  them  here  anew  ? 

The  saint  that  yonder  walks 
Smiles  from  our  chancel  space  ; 


But  Mary  with  the  lily-stalks 
Has  mine  own  mother's  face. 

The  thought  of  her  was  sweet 

As  blossoms  are  in  Lent ; 

Green  turned  our  winding  convent  street, 

And  all  about  was  Kent. 

Kent  lilies  round  her  nod ; 
I  drew  her  staid  and  fair ; 
I  drew  her  with  the  Son  of  God 
Clasped  to  her  bosom  there. 

Brief  is  our  life  and  dark ; 
The  grave  shall  hold  us  fast ; 
Yet  find  I  here  in  old  Saint  Mark 
That  only  right  shall  last. 

I,  Basil,  too,  must  heed, 

Else  were  my  task  undone. 

God  has  more  books  than  I  can  read ; 

I  praise  Him  for  this  one. 


A  PASTORAL 

OHO,  my  love,  oho,  my  love,  and  ho,  the  bough  that  shows, 
Against  the  grayness  of  mid- Lent  the  color  of  the  rose ! 
The  lights  o'  Spring  are  in  the  sky  and  down  among  the  grass  ; 
Bend  low,  bend  low,  ye  Kentish  reeds,  and  let  two  lovers  pass ! 

The  plum-tree  is  a  straitened  thing ;  the  cherry  is  but  vain ; 
The  thorn  but  black  and  empty  at  the  turning  of  the  lane ; 
Yet  mile  by  mile  out  in  the  wind  the  peach-trees  blow  and  blow, 
And  which  is  stem,  and  which  is  bloom,  not  any  maid  can  know. 

The  ghostly  ships  sail  up  to  town  and  past  the  orchard  wall ; 
There  is  a  leaping  in  the  reeds ;  they  waver  and  they  fall ; 
For  lo,  the  gusts  of  God  are  out ;  the  April  time  is  brief ; 
The  country  is  a  pale  red  rose,  and  dropping  leaf  by  leaf. 

I  do  but  keep  me  close  beside,  and  hold  my  lover's  hand ; 
Along  the  narrow  track  we  pass  across  the  level  land ; 
The  petals  whirl  about  us  and  the  sedge  is  to  our  knees ; 
The  ghostly  ships  sail  up,  sail  up,  beyond  the  stripping  trees. 

When  we  are  old,  when  we  are  cold,  and  barred  is  the  door, 
The  memory  of  this  will  come  and  turn  us  young  once  more ; 
The  lights  o'  Spring  will  dim  the  grass  and  tremble  from  the  sky; 
And  all  the  Kentish  reeds  bend  low  to  let  us  two  go  by ! 


CHARLES  LAMB 

LOVER  of  London,  not  a  violet 
Purpled  at  a  shop-door  the  end  o'  Lent, 
Hut  thought  he  higher  than  all  its  kind  in  Kent ; 
And  if  the  door  were  carved  —  then  better  yet  1 
Elizabethan  laughter  fills  his  time, 
He  heard  it  echoing  and  made  it  his ; 
And  with  its  smacking  words  for  that  or  this, 
He  set  to  prose  what  others  saved  for  rhyme. 
Past  cheat  of  years  the  comrades  of  his  mood  - 
The  quiet  old  men  sitting  in  the  sun ; 
Strict  maids  ;  gray  clerks  ;  and  children  fair  and  blest ; 
And  that  sad  woman  of  his  house  and  blood  — 
And  still  he  hides  his  hurts  from  dearest  one ; 
Hut  with  the  whole  world  shares  the  stingless  jest  1 


TELLING  THE  BEES 

(A  COLONIAL  CUSTOM) 

BATHSHEBA  came  out  to  the  sun, 
Out  to  our  walled  cherry-trees  ; 
The  tears  adown  her  cheek  did  run, 
Bathsheba  standing  in  the  sun, 
Telling  the  bees. 

My  mother  had  that  moment  died ; 
Unknowing,  sped  I  to  the  trees, 
And  plucked  Bathsheba's  hand  aside ; 
Then  caught  the  name  that  there  she  cried 
Telling  the  bees. 

Her  look  I  never  can  forget, 
I  that  held  sobbing  to  her  knees ; 
The  cherry-boughs  above  us  met ; 
I  think  I  see  Bathsheba  yet 
Telling  the  bees. 


HER  LAST  WORD 

REMEMBER  or  forget  me,  as  you  will ! 
Keep  me  in  mind,  as  one  on  the  June's  edge 
Keeps  the  sole  bloom  that  starred  the  sad  March  sedge, 
Because  it  was  the  first,  and  hours  were  chill. 
Or,  else,  let  me  be  naught  of  good  or  ill ; 
The  snow  that  one  time  whirled  within  the  hedge ; 
Some  fair,  forgotten  thing,  too  slight  for  pledge, 
Vanished  too  long  to  make  your  pulses  thrill : 
When  you  do  weep,  my  tears  are  salt  as  yours ; 
You  laugh,  and  all  my  loads  are  light  to  bear ; 
Back  of  my  sweetest  thought  a  sweeter  yet, 
You  bide  with  me,  and  will  while  life  endures. 
Let  me  remember ;  but  if  aught  of  care 
Pricks  you  through  me,  then  do  you,  love,  forget ! 


IN  TIME  OF  GRIEF 

DARK,  thinned,  beside  the  wall  of  stone, 
The  box  dripped  in  the  air ; 
Its  odor  through  my  house  was  blown 
Into  the  chamber  there. 

Remote  and  yet  distinct  the  scent, 
The  sole  thing  of  the  kind, 
As  though  one  spoke  a  word  half  meant 
That  left  a  sting  behind. 

I  knew  not  Grief  would  go  from  me, 
And  naught  of  it  be  plain, 
Except  how  keen  the  box  can  be 
After  a  fall  of  rain. 


LOVE  CAME  BACK  AT  FALL  O'  DEW 

LOVE  came  back  at  fall  o'  dew, 
Playing  his  old  part ; 
But  I  had  a  word  or  two 
That  would  break  his  heart. 

"  He  who  comes  at  candle-light, 
That  should  come  before, 
Must  betake  him  to  the  night 
From  a  barred  door." 

This  the  word  that  made  us  part 
In  the  fall  o'  dew ; 

This  the  word  that  brake  his  heart  — 
Yet  it  brake  mine,  too  1 


10 


INDIAN  SUMMER 

CAST  on  this  shore  at  end  of  year, 
Survivors  of  the  wreck  and  storm, 
We  build  our  fire  of  driftwood  here, 
Somewhat  to  gain  of  the  old  cheer, 
And  spread  our  stiffened  hands  to  warm. 
Nor  gold  nor  any  spice  have  we ; 
From  West  or  East  no  carved  things ; 
But  ever  to  us  keeps  and  clings 
The  stinging  odor  of  the  sea ! 


ii 


A   STRKKT  SCKNK 

ri  I  K  cast  is  a  dear  violet  mass 
Behind  the  houses  high  ; 
The  laborers  with  their  kettles  pass  ; 
The  carts  are  creaking  by. 

Carved  out  against  the  tender  sky, 
The  convent  gables  lift ; 
Half  way  below  the  old  boughs  lie 
I  leaped  in  .1  :•,!<'. U  white  drift. 

They  tremble  in  the  passionate  air; 
They  part,  and  clean  and  sweet 
The  cherry  (lakes  fall  here,  fall  there  ; 
A  handful  stirs  the  street. 

Thf  workmen  look  up  as  (hey  go  ; 
And  one,  remembering  plain 
How  white  the  Irish  orchards  blow, 
Turns  back,  and  looks  again. 


WAITING  FOR  SONG 

\LL  my  roads  climb  to  90%  and  my  whole  year 
To  days  elect  and  few, 

Thrust  toward  the  springtime,  m  an  atmosphere 
Sifted  of  frost  or  dew; 
Shut  to  ItiimnaJamrf,  *?imc,  away  from  you. 


lion  AMU  Remembrance  ;  tajfffftrtkm  here, 

I^c  S   /.  :    '."•.'    /  '.  "'  -'  '    >£'.. 

Waits  in  this  tender  season.     Draw  you  near 

Swift  as  the  violet  ? 

God  answers  me  with  you  :  I  haTe  you  yet 

At  root  of  crocus  ;  at  the  heart  of  tree  ; 

And  in  the  shower*s  drip  : 

Fleeting  fike  wind  the  hollow  dusks  for  me  ; 

Back  to  my  best  I  slip, 

Remembering  you:  I  run,  but  you  outstrip. 

Grown  used  to  Spring,  oh,  I  shall  understand 
ITn  BUM^i  Ifcimt  «H  M  lin, 

To  watch  it  surge  in  billows  up  the  land! 

^:  :  /  .«  '.'.  •.:>i\-.  :/  \  /  .'     :.N  >i  i 

You  rising  up,  come  back  from  God  to  me! 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

:N  his  old  gusty  garden  of  the  North, 
He  heard  lark-time  the  uplifting  Voices  call ; 
Smitten  through  with  Voices  was  the  evenfall  — 
At  last  they  drove  him  forth. 

Now  there  were  two  rang  silverly  and  long ; 
And  of  Romance,  that  spirit  of  the  sun, 
And  of  Romance,  spirit  of  youth,  was  one ; 
And  one  was  that  of  Song. 

Gold-belted  sailors,  bristling  buccaneers, 
The  flashing  soldier,  and  the  high,  slim  dame, 
These  were  the  Shapes  that  all  around  him  came, — 
That  we  let  go  with  tears. 

His  was  the  unstinted  English  of  the  Scot, 
Clear,  nimble,  with  the  scriptural  tang  of  Knox 
Thrust  through  it  like  the  far,  strict  scent  of  box, 
To  keep  it  unforgot. 

No  frugal  Realist,  but  quick  to  laugh, 

To  see  appealing  things  in  all  he  knew, 

He  plucked  the  sun-sweet  corn  his  fathers  grew, 

And  would  have  naught  of  chaff. 

David  and  Keats,  and  all  good  singing  men, 
Take  to  your  hearts  this  Covenanter's  son, 
Gone  in  mid-years,  leaving  our  years  undone, 
Where  you  do  sing  again ! 

14 


AUTUMN  TO  SPRING 

OF  the  emptying  hands  but  the  quick  heart, 

I,  that  was  Spring,  to  me 
Troop  gust-like  Visions  where  I  muse  apart ; 
From  days  long-gone  I  see 
Oncoming  days,  O  Spring  that  is  to  be  ! 

I,  the  gray  Reaper,  putting  life  aside 

As  an  engathered  sheaf, 

Recall  the  furrows  and  the  lost  seed-tide, 

The  tumult  sweet  and  brief 

That  shakes  the  land  into  the  curled  leaf. 

Lo,  that  white  handful  at  the  orchard's  door ! 

Spent  with  remembering, 

I  long  for  some  poor  sign  of  places  hoar, 

And  straight  that  ghostly  thing 

As  token  that  I  once  was  Sower  and  Spring. 

Ecstatic  hours ;  the  pangs  of  growth,  its  fires, 

Its  sudden,  stormy  calls, 

Are  yours  ;  the  immemorial  desires  ; 

The  spectral  mood  that  falls 

Along  with  dusk  by  broken  pasture-walls. 

Yet  ever  is  the  old  at  root  of  new ; 

Across  your  slender  grass 

My  foot  shall  sound  ;  back  of  each  thought  of  you 

Be  that  of  Hallowmas  ; 

The  Long  Since  as  a  shadow  come  and  pass. 


Then  shall  you  be,  O  Spring,  like  unto  him 

Who  bides,  young  heir  of  all, 

In  an  old  house,  with  many  memories  dim, 

Engirt  by  poplars  tall, 

And  knows  not  why  his  tears  begin  to  fall. 

He  hears  without  the  delicate  winds  go  by, 

And  one  thrush  twilightward, 

Loosing  his  heart  unto  the  quiet  sky ; 

But  indoors  sits  he,  pored 

Over  vague  tales  of  the  dear,  vanished  lord. 

Upon  your  jocund  face  that  look  I  bear 

Shall  as  a  seal  be  set ; 

Folk  will  remember ;  one  shall  fieldward  fare 

Under  the  hedges  wet, 

And  find  my  dead  leaves  round  your  violet. 


16 


A  WHITE  LILAC 

KNOW  you  ghost  of  some  lone,  delicate  hour, 

Long-gone  but  unforgot ; 
Wherein  I  had  for  guerdon  and  for  dower 

That  one  thing  I  have  not. 

Unplucked  I  leave  your  mystical  white  feather, 

O  phantom  up  the  lane ; 
For  back  may  come  that  spent  and  lovely  weather, 

And  I  be  glad  again  1 


TO  A  TOWN  POET 

NATCH  the  departing  mood ; 

Make  yours  its  emptying  reed,  and  pipe  us  still 
Faith  in  the  time,  faith  in  our  common  blood, 
Faith  in  the  least  of  good ; 
Song  cannot  fail  if  these  its  spirit  fill  1 

What  if  your  heritage  be 

The  huddled  trees  along  the  smoky  ways  ; 

At  a  street's  end  the  stretch  of  lilac  sea ; 

The  vender,  swart  but  free, 

Crying  his  yellow  wares  across  the  haze  ? 

Your  verse  awaits  you  there  ; 

For  Love  is  Love  though  Latin  swords  be  rust ; 

The  keen  Greek  driven  from  gossiping  mall  and  square  ; 

And  Care  is  still  but  Care 

Though  Homer  and  his  seven  towns  are  dust. 

Thus  Beauty  lasts,  and,  lo  ! 

Now  Proserpine  is  barred  from  Enna's  hills, 

The  flower  she  plucked  yet  makes  an  April  show, 

Sets  some  town  sill  a-glow, 

And  yours  the  Vision  of  the  Daffodils. 

The  Old- World  folk  knew  not 

More  surge-like  sounds  than  urban  winters  bring 

Up  from  the  wharves  at  dusk  to  every  spot ; 

And  no  Sicilian  plot 

More  fire  than  heaps  our  tulips  in  the  spring. 

18 


Strait  is  the  road  of  Song, 

And  they  that  be  the  last  are  oft  the  first ; 

Fret  not  for  fame  ;  the  years  are  kind  though  long ; 

You,  in  the  teasing  throng, 

May  take  all  time  with  one  shrewd  lyric  burst. 

Be  reverend  and  know 

111  shall  not  last,  or  waste  the  ploughed  land ; 

Or  creeds  sting  timid  souls;  and  naught  at  all, 

Whatever  else  befall, 

Can  keep  us  from  the  hollow  of  God's  hand. 

Let  trick  of  words  be  past ; 

Strict  with  the  thought,  unfearful  of  the  form, 

So  shall  you  find  the  way  and  hold  it  fast, 

The  world  hear,  at  the  last, 

The  horns  of  morning  sound  above  the  storm. 


A  CRICKET  IN  AUTUMN 

OH  Shape,  beyond  the  orchard  palings  there, 
What  moods  of  memory  holds  this  lessening  light, 
The  lilac,  fading  sky,  or,  crooked  and  white, 
The  young  moon  set  above  the  plum-trees  bare  ? 
For  these  do  in  your  music  have  a  share. 
But,  under  all,  your  one  thin,  antique  note, 
Past  youth  and  time,  and  evermore  remote, 
As  from  the  world's  rim  cuts  the  autumn  air. 
Certain  am  I  that  Song  is  not  in  vain ; 
And  yet,  despite  your  piping,  come  and  pass 
The  phantom  chords  of  him  that  to  our  door 
Brought  laughter  like  sweet  gusts  that  follow  rain. 
His  reed  lies  snapped  and  rotting  in  the  grass : 
Yours,  too,  shall  fail  and  you  be  heard  no  more ! 


20 


WRIT  IN  A  BOOK  OF   ELIZABETHAN    VERSE 

ONCOMING  Hour  of  light  and  dew, 
Of  heartier  sun,  more  certain  blue, 
My  shadow  on  your  face  doth  fall. 
I  am  the  first  sweet  thing  of  all ; 
By  that  much  the  more  sweet  than  you. 

Mine  is  the  crocus  and  the  call 
Of  gust  to  gust  in  shrubberies  tall ; 
The  white  tumult,  the  rainy  hush ; 
And  mine  the  unforgetting  thrush 
That  pours  its  heart-break  from  the  wall. 

For  I  am  Tears,  for  I  am  Spring, 
The  old  and  immemorial  thing ; 
To  me  come  ghosts  by  twos  and  threes, 
Under  the  swaying  cherry-trees, 
From  east  and  west  remembering. 

O  elder  Hour,  when  I  am  not, 
Gone  out  like  smoke  from  road  and  plot, 
More  perfect  Hour  of  light  and  dew, 
Shall  lovers  turn  away  from  you, 
And  long  for  me,  the  Unforgot  1 


21 


AN  OLD  BELLE 

A   DAUGHTER  of  the  Cavaliers 
(A  phrase  a  little  dulled  with  years), 
But  something  sweeter  than  them  all, 
Serene  she  sits  at  evenfall. 

Tall  tulips  crowd  the  window-sill, 

Vague  ghosts  of  those  that  blew  at  will  — 

Ere  she  was  old  and  time  so  fleet  — 

In  one  walled  space  down  Camden  street. 

And  straight — she  and  her  lover  there 
in  that  town  garden  take  the  air ; 
Tall  tulips  lift  in  scarlet  tire, 
Brimming  the  April  dusk  with  fire. 

Without,  the  white  of  harbored  ships ; 
The  road  that  to  the  water  slips ; 
The  tang  of  salt ;  the  scent  of  sea ; 
Within,  her  only  love  and  she ! 

Back  to  the  new  she  comes  once  more, 
To  roofs  ungabled,  ways  that  roar ; 
To  the  sole  April  left  her  still, 
That  potted  scarlet  on  the  sill. 

Dust  are  those  pleasant  garden  walls ; 
Her  only  love  in  green  Saint  Paul's ; 
Serene  she  sits  at  her  day's  close ; 
Last  of  her  kin,  but  still  a  rose ! 

22 


THE  SHEPHERD 

ACROSS  the  Park,  at  set  of  sun, 
The  shepherd  drives  his  sheep ; 
The  little  lambs  that  scarce  can  run 
But  by  their  mothers  keep. 

The  town  roars  on  without  the  gate  ; 

There  comes  a  wavering  gust 
Of  children's  laughter,  and  the  grate 

Of  wheels  along  the  dust. 

A  figure  scriptural  and  kind, 

Cut  out  against  the  brass 
That  deepens  in  the  west  behind, 

He  follows  through  the  grass. 

He  gives  a  Syrian  look  to  things, 

From  highest  unto  least ; 
To  sky,  to  beechen  bough,  there  clings 

A  flavor  of  the  East. 

With  hurrying  noises  close  but  light 
Straight  to  the  fold  they  keep ; 

A  pastoral  spread  before  our  sight, 
A  shepherd  and  his  sheep. 


A  FORGOTTEN  ANCESTOR 

HIS  fathers  all  were  clerkly  men, 
(Or  so  he  has  been  told) ; 
They  loved  a  gossip  now  and  then, 
The  town  ways  shrewd  and  bold. 

They  hang — each  in  a  carved  frame  - 

Along  the  dusky  stair ; 
Thence  can  he  see  at  thick  o'  spring 

The  lilacs  in  the  square. 

His  the  colonial  parson's  eyes ; 

The  dash  of  cavalier ; 
And  his  the  brow  of  him  who  lies 

Dust  in  old  Warwickshire. 

He  sees  the  lilacs  in  the  square, 

Purple,  hazy,  and  slim  ; 
The  portraits  fade  from  out  the  stair ; 

The  town  itself  is  dim. 

For  when  the  April  chills  and  thrills, 
One  moment  rude  and  deep, 

He  climbs  the  everlasting  hills, 
A  shepherd  with  his  sheep  I 


24 


T 


THE  DAY  BEFORE  SPRING 

HERE  is  a  faltering  crimson  by  the  wall, 

Now  on  a  vine,  and  now  on  briar  thinned, 
As  though  one  bearing  lantern  through  the  wind, 
Here  hides  his  light,  but  yonder  lets  it  fall. 
And  we  remember  and  remember ;  all 
Ancestral  stirrings  point  unto  this  fate, — 
That  we  shall  come  unto  our  old  estate, 
Defrauding  days  unloose  their  iron  thrall. 
Without,  the  trees  seem  crowding  to  the  street, 
Like  simple  folk  that  breathless  here  and  there 

Crowd  toward  a  haunted  space,  to  verify 
Some  dim  report  of  ghost  or  vision  fleet ; 
And  lo,  at  dusk,  across  the  silent  square, 
As  in  a  whirl  of  bloom,  a  Shape  goes  by ! 


IN  HARBOR 

F  hungry,  Lord,  I  need  but  bread ; 

If  I  be  faint,  a  cooling  cup ; 
Naught,  if  I  weary,  save  a  bed ; 

If  halt,  a  staff  to  hold  me  up ; 
If  needy,  fields  to  till : 
Yet,  Lord,  I  wait  Thy  will. 


26 


HERRICK 

OH,  Herrick,  still  we  love  you,  and  our  days 
Keep  to  the  weather  of  the  daffodil, 
Because,  good  Mayer,  your  few  notes  do  still 
Break  with  their  silver  down  our  sullen  ways. 
Last  of  your  line  that  knew  to  clearly  sing, 
You  kept  your  heart  up  to  the  bloomy  time, 
Spending  your  Devon  in  unvexed  rhyme, 
And  with  no  mood  except  that  one  of  Spring. 
Oh,  still  we  come,  —  as  to  some  fair  estate, 
Which  should  be  theirs,  yet  somehow  is  not  so, 
Come  poor  and  wistful  heirs  from  overseas, 
To  long  and  look  without  the  fast-barred  gate — 
And  track  you  by  your  laughter  where  you  go 
At  thick  of  morn  under  the  rectory  trees ! 


27 


TRUST 


i 


AM  Thy  grass,  O  Lord  1 

I  grow  up  sweet  and  tall 
But  for  a  day ;  beneath  Thy  sword 
To  lie  at  evenfall. 


Yet  have  I  not  enough 

In  that  brief  day  of  mine? 
The  wind,  the  bees,  the  wholesome  stuff 

The  sun  pours  out  like  wine. 

Behold,  this  is  my  crown ; 

Love  will  not  let  me  be ; 
Love  holds  me  here ;  Love  cuts  me  down ; 

And  it  is  well  with  me. 

Lord,  Love,  keep  it  but  so  ; 

Thy  purpose  is  full  plain  ; 
I  die  that  after  I  may  grow 

As  tall,  as  sweet  again. 


28 


INSPIRATION 

UPON  the  hills  I  left  my  sheep ; 
Shepherd  no  more  was  I, 
With  staff  and  scrip  a  watch  to  keep ; 
My  flocks  were  of  the  sky. 

I  ran  down  to  the  river-reeds ; 

I  set  the  foremost  loose ; 
I  made  it  ready  for  my  needs, 

And  sweet  enough  for  use. 

The  rude  East  smote  me  where  I  stood 
The  stars  were  great  and  few ; 

Sudden,  along  the  expectant  wood, 
A  wavering  note  I  blew. 

Fog  wrapped  me  in  a  winding-sheet; 

Nor  sky  nor  road  was  clear ; 
I  blew  a  note  so  echoing  sweet 

The  night  rose  up  to  hear. 

The  kine  came  from  the  pastures  chill ; 

The  flock  came  from  the  fold ; 
By  tavern-sides  the  folk  sat  still ; 

The  dead  stirred  in  the  mold. 

Ere  yet  the  dark  was  at  its  close, 
Quaking  I  blew  once  more ; 

The  silence  petaled  like  a  rose, 
And  all  my  song  was  o'er. 

29 


Myriad  and  golden  past  the  wood, 
The  spears  of  morn  grew  plain  ; 

Empty  within  the  light  I  stood 
And  brake  my  reed  in  twain. 


THE  THRUSH  IN  THE  ORCHARD 


o 


N  the  edge  of  the  close, 

Oh  my  heart,  and  my  heart,  do  you  hear 
The  song  of  that  thrush  ? 
The  west  it  is  like  to  a  rose, 
And  the  low  white  trees  in  the  hush 
Stand  up  in  the  quick  of  the  year, 
Oh  my  heart,  in  the  quick  of  the  year  1 

Round  and  black  is  the  pool, 

Out  of  ivory  carved  in  the  lane ; 

A  shadowy  thing 

The  house  in  its  garden  so  cool, 

In  the  lilac  haze  of  the  spring, 

Its  chimneys  but  ancient  and  vain  ; 

Yet  the  song,  oh  the  song,  is  full  plain  ! 

April  comes  to  his  own, 

But  he  hears  in  the  grass,  as  he  goes, 

The  Aprils  that  were  ; 

Before  him,  behind  him,  are  blown 

Dim  sounds  through  the  hush  and  the  stir ; 

Both  Loss  and  Possession  he  knows, 

And  the  song  sings  them  both  in  the  close. 

Delicate,  rich,  and  remote, 

Like  a  fervid,  far  word  that  is  told, 

It  captures  the  land, 

Flung  out  of  the  small,  throbbing  throat ; 


And  the  Long  Ago  is  at  hand, 

The  very  scent  of  the  mold, 

And  the  look  of  the  bough  is  the  old. 

All  the  stricken  go  by, 

All  the  years  that  are  trod  into  dust ; 

The  sad  and  the  blest ; 

Now  Care,  with  his  face  from  the  sky ; 

Now  Sorrow,  his  head  on  his  breast ! 

The  mood  of  the  Spring  —  for  it  must  - 

As  a  sword  through  the  sunset  is  thrust. 

Oh  my  heart  and  my  heart, 

When  we  come  to  the  cold  of  the  year, 

The  thought  of  the  thrush, 

It  shall  take  us  and  set  us  apart, 

With  the  low  white  trees  in  the  hush, 

Past  the  yellowing  leaf  and  the  sere, — 

Oh  my  heart,  in  the  cold  of  the  year ! 

The  petals  leap  up  ; 

Of  a  sudden  the  orchard  doth  bend, 

A  room  growing  bare  ; 

As  out  of  an  emptying  cup, 

Drips  the  music  out  of  the  air ; 

For  ghostly  the  orchard  doth  bend, 

Till  the  gust  and  the  song  are  at  end ! 


GROWTH 

CLIMB  that  was  a  clod  ; 

I  run  whose  steps  were  slow ; 
I  reap  the  very  wheat  of  God 

That  once  had  none  to  sow. 

Is  Joy  a  lamp  outblown  ? 

Truth  out  of  grasping  set  ? 
But  nay,  for  Laughter  is  mine  own  ; 

I  knock  and  answer  get. 

Nor  is  the  last  word  said ; 

Nor  is  the  battle  done ; 
Somewhat  of  glory  and  of  dread 

Remains  for  set  of  sun. 

For  I  have  scattered  seed 

Shall  ripen  at  the  end ; 
Old  Age  holds  more  than  I  shall  need, 

Death  more  than  I  can  spend. 


33 


T 


A  BELATED  ROSE 

HE  sheaves  are  gathered  in  ; 

The  apple-bough  is  bare ; 
Whence  comes  it,  lone  and  rare, 
Into  this  empty  air, 
Now  fast  are  barn  and  bin  ? 


What  furrow  long  forgot 
Sets  here  its  honeyed  sign  ? 
What  old  seed  turns  divine  ? 
Honey  enough  is  mine ; 
And  so  I  gather  not. 

The  day  draws  to  its  close, 
The  long  day  and  the  sore ; 
And  I  —  I  reap  no  more  ; 
Though  at  my  very  door 
The  harvest  is  a  rose ! 


34 


RECOMPENSE 

SOMETIMES,  yea,  often,  I  forget,  forget ; 
Pass  your  closed  door  with  not  a  thought  of  you, 
Of  the  old  days,  but  only  of  these  new ; 
I  sow ;  I  reap ;  my  house  in  order  set. 
Then  of  a  sudden  doth  this  thing  befall, 
By  a  wood's  edge,  or  in  the  market-place, 
That  I  remember  naught  but  your  dead  face, 
And  other  folk  forgotten,  you  are  all. 
When  this  is  so,  oh,  sooth  the  time  and  sweet !  — 
And  I,  thereafter,  am  like  unto  one 
Who  from  the  lilac  bloom  and  the  young  year 
Comes  to  a  chamber  shuttered  from  the  street, 
Yet  heeds  nor  emptiness  nor  lack  of  sun, 
For  that  the  recompensing  Spring  is  near ! 


35 


A  CELTIC  MAYING  SONG 

SEVEN  candles  burn  at  my  love's  head, 
Seven  candles  at  his  feet ; 
He  lies  as  he  were  carved  of  stone 
Under  the  winding-sheet. 

The  Mayers  troop  into  the  town 
Each  with  a  branch  of  May, 

But  when  they  come  to  my  love's  house 
Not  one  word  do  they  say. 

But  when  they  come  to  my  love's  house, 

Silent  they  stand  before  ; 
Out  steps  a  lad  with  one  white  bough, 

And  lays  it  at  the  door. 


A  HOLIDAY 

ALONG  the  pastoral  ways  I  go, 
To  get  the  healing  of  the  trees ; 
The  ghostly  news  the  hedges  know ; 
To  hive  me  honey  like  the  bees, 
Against  the  time  of  snow. 

The  common  hawthorn  that  I  see, 
Beside  the  sunken  wall  astir, 
Or  any  other  blossoming  tree, 
Is  each  God's  fair  white  gospeler, 
His  book  upon  the  knee. 

A  gust-broken  bough  ;  a  pilfered  nest ; 
Rumors  of  orchard  or  of  bin  ; 
The  thrifty  things  of  east  and  west  — 
The  countryside  becomes  my  Inn, 
And  I  its  happy  Guest. 


37 


FIRST  LOVE 

Y  neighbor  yonder  at  her  door, 

Looks  out  and  sees  the  bloom, 
Turning  the  formal  Park  before 
Into  a  fair  white  room. 


M 


Of  all  her  life  or  ill  or  good, 

This  is  remembered, — 
An  old  house  set  by  an  old  wood ; 

The  lad  she  did  not  wed. 


CONSOLATION 

OH,  my  beloved,  sweet  each  hour  I  know 
Because  it  brings  me  closer  unto  you ! 
Boughs  make  me  blithe,  and  blades  give  comfort  true. 
When  down  our  sea-worn  lanes  red  leaves  drop  slow, 
Soon  on  the  stalk  will  not  the  green  leaf  show  ? 
When  blows  the  crocus  as  long  since  it  blew, 
Or  willows  bud  by  reedy  wells  we  knew  — 
As  went  the  old,  will  not  the  young  year  go  ? 
Ah,  once,  drew  the  dark  hour  of  parting  near ! 
Each  weather  was  more  bitter  than  the  last, 

And  fair  or  sere  an  added  sorrow  bore ; 
But  now,  beloved,  breaks  that  time  of  cheer, 
When  I  shall  see  you,  hear  you,  hold  you  fast, 
And  each  is  sweeter  than  the  one  before. 


39 


o 


ON  A  COLONIAL  PICTURE 

UT  of  the  dusk  stepped  down 
Young  Beauty  on  the  stair ; 
What  need  of  April  in  the  town 
When  Dolly  took  the  air  ? 


Lilac  the  color  then, 

So  all  in  lilac  she  ; 
Her  kerchief  hid  from  maids  and  men 

What  was  too  white  to  see. 

Good  Stuart  folk  her  kin, 

And  bred  in  Essex  vales  ; 
One  looked  her  happy  eyes  within, 

And  heard  the  nightingales. 

When  Dolly  took  the  air, 

Each  lad  that  happened  near, 

Forgetting  all  save  she  was  fair, 
Turned  English  cavalier. 

It  was  the  end  o'  Lent, 

The  crocus  lit  the  square ; 
With  wavering  green  the  bough  was  bent 

When  Dolly  took  the  air. 

Long  since  that  weather  sped, 

Yet  yonder  on  the  wall 
Her  portrait  holds  a  faded  shred, 

Some  scrap  of  it  in  thrall. 

40 


The  New  World  claims  the  skies, 
Although  the  Old  prevails  ; 

We  look  into  her  happy  eyes 
And  hear  the  nightingales. 

Staid  lilac  is  her  gown, 

And  yellow  gleams  her  hair ; 

The  ghost  of  April  is  in  town, 
And  Dolly  takes  the  air ! 


A  LYRIC  ON  THE  LYRIC 

THIS  road  our  blithe-heart  elders  knew, 
And  down  it  trooped  together ; 
They  plucked  their  reeds  from  out  the  dew, 
And  piped  the  morning  weather. 

Shepherd  or  gallant,  cloak  or  smock, 
They  lead  where  we  do  follow ; 

Hear  Colin  there  among  his  flock 
To  Phyllis  in  the  hollow  ! 

Corinna  goes  a-Maying  yet ; 

Phillida's  laugh  is  ringing ; 
And  see  Castara,  violet 

Of  early  English  singing. 

But  were  these  lovers  never  sad, 
Did  not  some  heart  go  breaking  ? 

Were  youth  and  cowslips  to  be  had 
Just  for  the  simple  taking  ? 

Oh,  Sorrow,  too,  has  gone  this  way, 

And  Loss  as  well  as  Leisure ; 
Yet  Sorrow  lasted  for  a  day, 

And  Loss  through  scarce  a  measure. 

And  here  Beau  Waller  stayed  to  snatch, 

Just  at  Oblivion's  portal, 
A  single  rose  that  none  can  match  — 

And  after  grew  immortal. 

42 


No  rain  can  strip  it  of  its  red ; 

No  gust  pelt  out  its  savor ; 
Though  Celia  died  and  he  is  dead, 

This  is  the  rose  he  gave  her. 

What  riverside  shall  grow  once  more 
The  reed  bared  of  dull  teaching  ? 

And  who  shall  bring  unto  our  door 
Music  instead  of  preaching? 

Yet  here  forget  the  evil  days ; 

Let  go  the  Now  and  After ; 
Our  blithe-heart  elders  trooped  these  ways, 

And  filled  them  full  of  Laughter  1 


43 


DEATH'S  GUERDON 

SECURE  in  death  he  keeps  the  hearts  he  had 
Two  women  have  forgot  the  bitter  truth ; 
To  one  he  is  but  her  sweet  little  lad ; 
To  one  the  husband  of  her  youth. 


44 


T 


A  MEMORY 

HE  rosy  boughs  tossed  to  the  sky ; 

There,  as  I  passed  along, 
A  girl's  voice  passionate  and  high 
Rang  out  in  sudden  song. 


Across  the  darkening  street  it  came, 
Young,  throbbing,  sad  of  fall ; 

I  think  old  Homer  heard  the  same 
By  some  ruined  Smyrna  wall. 

Thereafter,  with  my  memories  few, 
That  song  was  a  sooth  thing ; 

Yet  went  I  back  no  more ;  I  knew 
That  it  was  gone  with  Spring. 


45 


MYSTERY 

ELUDE  me  still,  keep  ever  just  before, 
A  cloudy  thing,  a  shape  with  winged  feet. 
I  shall  pursue,  but  be  you  strict  and  fleet, 
Unreachable  as  gusts  that  pass  the  door. 
Better  than  doubting  eye  that  eye  of  yore 
Which  set  tall  robbers  stalking  through  the  night ; 
Or  of  the  wind,  lane's  hollow,  briars  white, 
Made  for  the  April-tide  one  ghost  the  more. 
For  safe  am  I  that  have  you  still  in  sight ; 
See  you  down  each  new  road,  upon  you  come 
In  crocus  days ;  under  the  stripped  tree  find ; 
In  creed  and  song,  in  harvest  as  in  blight ; 
My  chiefest  joy  till  I  grow  cold  and  dumb ; 
Till  my  years  fail,  and  you  are  left  behind ! 


46 


KEATS 

AN  English  lad,  who,  reading  in  a  book, 
A  ponderous,  leathern  thing  set  on  his  knee, 
Saw  the  broad  violet  of  the  Egean  Sea 
Lap  at  his  feet  as  it  were  village  brook. 
Wide  was  the  east ;  the  gusts  of  morning  shook ; 
Immortal  laughter  beat  along  that  shore ; 
Pan  crouching  in  the  reeds,  piped  as  of  yore  ; 
The  gods  came  down  and  thundered  from  that  book, 
He  lifted  his  sad  eyes  ;  his  London  street 
Swarmed  in  the  sun  and  strove  to  make  him  heed ; 
Boys  spun  their  tops,  shouting  and  fair  of  cheek : 
But  still,  that  violet  lapping  at  his  feet, — 
An  English  lad  had  he  sat  down  to  read ; 
But  he  rose  up  and  knew  himself  a  Greek. 


47 


THE  LAVENDER  WOMAN 

(A  MARKET  SONG) 

ROOKED,  like  bough  the  March  wind  bends 

wallward  across  the  sleet, 
Stands  she  at  her  blackened  stall  in  the  loud  mar 
ket  street ; 
All  about  her  in  the  sun,  full-topped,  exceeding 

sweet, 
Lie  bundles  of  gray  lavender,  a-shrivel  in  the  heat. 

What  the  Vision  that  is  mine,  coming  over  and 
o'er? 

'Tis  the  Dorset1  levels,  aye,  behind  me  and 
before ; 

Creeks  that  slip  without  a  sound  from  flaggy 
shore  to  shore ; 

Orchards  gnarled  with  spring-times  and  as  gust- 
bound  as  of  yore. 

Oh,  the  panes  at  sunset  burning  rich-red  as  the 

rose! 
Oh,  colonial  chimneys  that  the  punctual  swallow 

knows ! 
Land  where  like  a  memory  the  salt  scent  stays  or 

goes; 
Where  wealthy  is  the  reaper  and  right  glad  is  he 

that  sows ! 

»  Eastern  shore  of  Maryland. 


Drips  and  drips  the  last  June  rain,  but  toward  the 
evenfall 

Copper  gleam  the  little  pools  behind  the   pear- 
trees  tall ; 

In  a  whirl  of  violet,  and  the  fairest  thing  of  all, 

The  lavender,  the  lavender  sways  by  the  sagging 
wall! 


Fade  the  levels,  the  sea-scent,  the  sheltered  garden 

space ; 
Town  roars  all  about  me,  and  its  roofs  are  here 

apace ; 
Country-sick,  with  heavy  step  my  homeward  road 

I  trace, 
Bearing  the    keen    stuff    I    bought    in   the  loud 

market-place. 

Oh,    my   heart,   why  should   you   break   at   any 

thoughts  like  these  ? 
So  sooth  are  they  of  the  old  time  that  they  should 

bring  you  ease ; 
Of  Hester  in  the  lavender  and  out  among  the 

bees, 
Clipping  the  long  stalks  one  by  one  under  the 

Dorset  trees. 


49 


RESERVE 

KEEP  back  the  one  word  more, 
Nor  give  of  your  whole  store  ; 
For,  it  may  be,  in  Art's  sole  hour  of  need, 
Lacking  that  word,  you  shall  be  poor  indeed. 


OLD  AGE 

THIS  is  the  hour  that  just  Life  sends 
To  make  amends ; 
This  closet  space  where  Grief  is  not ; 

The  World  forgot ; 
And  far  behind  the  once-trodden  ways 

Enwrapped  in  haze ; 

Here  the  soft  weather  fleets 
Toward  the  sun-haunted  regions  of  the  West ; 

And  all  about  us  beats  — 
As  all  about  a  wood  stripped  of  its  best, 

A  still,  prophetic  thing— 

The  Rumor  of  the  Spring  1 


A  SONG 

ALL  in  an  April  wood, 
Met  I  with  Grief; 
As  I  plucked  violets 
And  the  young  leaf. 

All  in  an  April  wood, 
Dark  Grief  I  met ; 

Dark  Grief,  now  I  am  old, 
Bides  with  me  yet. 


S2 


ALL-SAINTS'  EVE 

OH  when  the  ghosts  go  by, 
Under  the  empty  trees, 
Here  in  my  house  I  sit  and  cry, 
My  head  upon  my  knees ! 

Innumerable,  white, 

Like  mist  they  fill  the  square  ; 
The  bolt  is  drawn,  the  latch  made  tight, 

The  shutter  barred  there. 

There  walks  one  small  and  glad, 
New  to  the  churchyard  clod ; 

My  little  lad,  my  little  lad, 
A  single  year  with  God ! 

I  sit  and  hide  my  head 

Until  they  all  are  past, 
Under  the  empty  trees  the  dead 

That  go  full  soft  and  fast. 

Up  to  my  chamber  dim, 

Back  to  my  bed  I  plod ; 
Oh,  would  I  were  a  ghost  with  him, 

And  faring  back  to  God ! 


53 


THE  CROCUS 

HOW  yellow  burns  the  crocus  in  the  plot ! 
A  little  candle-light  at  a  gray  wall, 
One  dauntless  moment  snatched  from  the  March  brawl, 
And  like  the  candle-light  to  be  forgot. 
Stripped  of  the  mellower  days,  the  richer  lot, 
It  comes,  it  goes,  an  unremembered  thing, 
And  missing  all  the  fullness  of  the  spring, 
Thrust  from  her  door,  because  the  time  is  not. 
I  am  not  she  you  love,  but  nay,  not  I !  — 
I  am  the  crocus  which  you  yonder  see, 
That,  come  too  soon,  although  a  delicate  flower, 
Folk  turn  to  praise  but  go  unplucking  by ; 
In  love  with  spring,  in  love  with  love,  not  me, 
Pass  on  and  leave  me  to  my  little  hour ! 


54 


BLOOM  IN  AUTUMN 

KEEN  as  though  carved  against  the  mellowing  sky, 
The  orchard  lifts  before  ; 

One  southward  armful  blossoming  white  and  high 
Like  foam  on  a  sad  shore ; 
Wraith  of  his  ladhood  at  an  old  man's  door  1 

Right  glad  for  it  the  uncertain,  aging  Year; 

His  straining  eyes  do  see 

More  than  the  country  levels  turning  sere ; 

More  than  crooked,  quiet  tree  ; 

For  back  of  it  his  ancient  acres  be. 

He  is  like  one  long  disinherited, 

Who  from  his  ancestral  lane, 

Sees  his  lost  roofs  across  the  sunset's  red, 

And,  heaped  against  the  pane, 

The  cherry-boughs  he  will  not  pluck  again. 

There,  as  he  watches,  at  his  feet  are  blown 

The  petals  torn  but  fair, 

A  little  of  the  much  that  was  his  own ; 

And,  for  an  instant  there, 

Forgets  he  all  save  April  in  the  air ! 

Remember,  too  ;  but  yet,  forecasting  Age, 

Bear  you  this  bough  before, 

Counting  it  for  your  toil  enough  of  wage, 

As  oft  pilgrims  of  yore 

At  sight  of  holy  steeples  brake  and  bore 

55 


Along  the  shortening  road  some  blossomed  thing, 

With  rapturous  shouts  and  calls, — 

So  do  you  with  this  earnest  of  that  Spring, 

Past  wavering  cheats  and  thralls, 

Whose  harvest  waits  beyond  the  heavenly  walls  1 


THE  LOOK  OF  THE  HEDGE 

WONDER  if  you  know — you  who  are  gone 
So  long  that  you  have  grown  a  mystery  — 
How  Grief  at  first  is  such  a  verity, 
He  holds  us  fast  from  iron  dawn  to  dawn ; 
Then,  slackening  his  grasp,  he  lets  us  go, 
Bearing  some  littleness  of  his  old  mood, 
Some  odor,  sound,  some  look  of  fold  or  wood, — 
You  that  are  gone,  I  wonder  if  you  know. 
This  morn  the  hedge  was  loosing  its  spent  white ; 
It  stung  me  as  with  tears.     What  thing  forgot, 
Mixed  with  this  custom  of  the  countryside, 
Had  happened  at  some  breaking  of  the  light  ? 
The  bared  briar  was  remembered  —  but  not 
This  was  the  very  morning  that  you  died  I 


57 


AT  LAST 

THAT  was  young  and  had  been  warm  was  dead  ; 

And,  lo  !  the  beat  of  boughs  upon  the  pane  ! 

Then  you,  groping  your  way  where  I  had  lain 
Three  stormy  sunsets,  shrouded  foot  and  head. 
There,  leaning  me,  some  choked,  low  words  you  said. 

If  with  such  speech  your  cold  lips  had  been  fain, 

In  the  old  time  ere  living  grew  so  vain, 
It  would  have  kept  me  quick  and  comforted. 
Ah,  was  it  well  a  longer  day  to  miss, 

Shed  my  sweet  youth  and  of  it  go  denied, 
Like  stalk  of  its  March  bloom,  and  get  but  this  ? 

This,  that  you  slip  a  moment  to  my  side, 
To  pay  me  for  my  losses  with  a  kiss  ?  — 

Yea ;  in  the  dark  I  praised  God  I  had  died. 


FRA  GREGORY'S  WORD  TO  THE  LORD 

MY  years  in  this  green  close  are  set ; 
The  mint  buds  lilac  row  by  row ; 
Thy  suns  blaze  on  ;  Thy  showers  wet ; 
And  I  rejoice  that  it  is  so. 

Each  stalk  of  lavender  is  sweet ; 

As  I  fare  back  from  ailing  men, 
I  smell  it  out  there  in  the  street, 

And  praise  Thee  I  am  home  again. 

Lord,  in  the  shop  at  Nazareth, 
Was  not  the  scent  of  cedar  Thine, 

Mixed  with  Thy  work  a  country  breath, 
As  is  this  lavender  with  mine  ? 

Ever  the  while  I  sow  or  reap, 

My  sick  folk  seem  about  me,  Lord, 

As  were  I  shepherd,  they  the  sheep ; 

Their  cares  smite  through  me  like  a  sword. 

Fra  Simon  has  a  lovely  book, 

On  rainy  days  he  comes  to  me, 
Over  the  painted  leaves  to  crook, 

And  therefrom  read  some  word  of  Thee. 

Fra  Simon  wrought  this  book  himself ; 

Luke  with  his  viol  breaks  my  heart ; 
A  few  dried  simples  on  a  shelf 

Are  all  my  song,  and  all  mine  art. 

59 


I  sort  them  out  on  floor  and  sill ; 

Fennel,  and  balm,  and  silver  sage; 
This  one  for  fever,  this  for  chill ; 

And,  loving  each,  I  get  my  wage. 

Do  such  as  I  to  glory  pass, 

Skilled  but  in  what  each  season  grows  ? 
I,  gatherer  of  the  convent  grass, 

With  smell  of  mold  about  my  clothes  ? 

I  cannot  sing ;  I  scarce  can  pray ; 

Let  me  have  there  some  garden  space, 
Where  I  may  dig  in  mine  old  way, 

And,  looking  up,  Lord,  see  Thy  face. 


60 


A  SONG  OF  THE  LAST  ROSE 

LET  me  weep  the  April  out ; 
(Tears  with  April  come  about) ; 
Like  Ophelia,  through  the  grass 
Heavy-headed  pass : 
For,  when  Laughter  halting  goes, 
Up  my  cloudy  wits  do  rear 
To  the  level  of  the  rose, 
Last  of  all  the  year  1 

What  a  heart  this  handful  shows, 
Wresting  June  from  out  the  snows, 
June  to  light  a  village  hedge ; 
Getting  Youth  and  vexed  breath — 
Youth  like  gust  among  the  sedge — 
At  the  door  of  Death  ! 

Flower,  at  ending  of  the  year, 
Up  my  cloudy  wits  do  rear ; 
And  I  face,  as  needs  I  must, 
Age  as  you  the  dust ; 
But  I  snatch  from  windy  fret, 
More  than  stalk  or  briar  knows ; 
From  this  troubled  time  I  get 
More  than  any  rose  1 


61 


LAUGHTER 

SPIRIT  of  the  gust  and  dew, 
Herrick  had  the  last  of  you  ! 
Empty  are  the  morning  hills. 
Herrick,  he  whose  hearty  airs 
Still  are  known  in  our  dull  squares ; 
Herrick  of  the  daffodils  1 

He  it  was  in  Devon  there, 
Lad  and  lover,  —  a  blithe  pair, — 
Filled  his  honeyed  reed  with  you ; 
Piped  the  Visions  that  did  pass, 
Spring-time  through  the  English  grass, 
When  the  thorny  hedges  blew. 

Now  the  pulpit  and  the  mart 
Make  an  unquiet  thing  of  Art, 
For  we  trade  or  else  we  preach ; 
Even  the  crocus,  'stead  of  song, 
Serves  for  text  the  April  long  : 
Thus  we  set  it  out  of  reach. 

Herrick  had  the  last  of  you, 
Spirit  of  the  gust  and  dew  !  — 
Still  the  ancient  Visions  pass  ; 
White  of  many  a  blossoming  tree, 
If  we  look  up,  shall  we  see, 
And  Corinna  in  the  grass. 


62 


A  MARSH  SONG 


FLAGS,  and  flags,  and  flags,  that,  blowing,  long 
and  slim  and  violet, 
Seem  like  racers,  young  and  myriad,  all  behind 

me  and  before, 
Running,  leaping,  fast  beside  me,  with  their  faces 

townward  set ; 

And  my  heart  is  glad  to  see  them,  and  I  laugh 
out  as  of  yore. 

Now  the  willows  rock  and  rock  against  the  thin 

gold  of  the  sky  ! 
Now  a  star  is  there  above  them,  beaten  out  upon 

the  gold : 
But  the  flags  are  straining  forward,  bending  low 

and  straightening  high, 
And   the  air  has  caught  the  sea-tang  that   the 

darkening  levels  hold. 

Ellen   is    a  bramble-blossom   foaming   white   on 

thorny  stalk, 
Melting  out  some  hedge's  hollow  like  the  snow  of 

Candlemas ; 
Margaret  is  soft  and  willful,  and  she  minds  me, 

in  her  talk, 
Of  the  blackbird's  hearty  whistle  when  the  orchards 

brim  with  grass. 


Oh,  I  love  not,  and  I  care  not,  and  I  let  the  maids 

pass  by ; 
Yet  I  know  one  at  her  house-door  sitting  with  her 

head  bent  low, 
And  her  gown  is  like  the  marsh-buds,  and  of  violet 

is  her  eye, 
And  the  flags  are  leaping,  leaping,  as  they  point 

the  way  to  go  1 

Cambridge  town  and  Cambridge  town  is  scarce  a 

mile  across  the  wind, 
And  it  keeps  her  and  it  holds  her  past  the  purpling 

of  the  reeds ; 
If  Love  waits  me  on  the  highway,  if  Love  plucks 

me  and  is  kind, 
What  can  any  lad  do  better  than  to  follow  where 

he  leads  ? 

Now  the  masts  rise  up  before  me  as  a  far  and 

empty  wood ; 
From  the  east  lands  and  the  west  lands  come  the 

great  stars  one  by  one ; 
Now  the  willows  rock  and  vanish  with  the  odors 

keen  and  good ; 
Now  the  flags  are  mist  behind  me,  and  the  racing 

is  all  done ! 


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